


desert air.

by chiseledclay



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Consensual spanking, M/M, Slight Violence, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 03:10:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10935759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiseledclay/pseuds/chiseledclay
Summary: In mere minutes, Rafa knows he is going to lose.





	desert air.

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this ages ago after that indian wells match. Unbetaed. Thanks for reading!

In mere minutes, Rafa knows he is going to lose. 

 

Backhand winner after backhand winner goes flying past him, and there Roger is, across him, looking young and fresh and fearless, ruthlessly putting everything Rafa throws at him away. It flushes him, throws him off until he can’t serve or hit properly. He doesn’t panic, just watches, wants to go out of this body and be a spectator in the stands so he can watch this spectacle from afar, actually admire it, show Roger the awe on his face.

 

It is quick and painless, and before Rafa can even pause to think beyond sheer disbelief, it’s over. A backhand winner clips the line, and no, no way Rafa’s challenging another call on match point. He smiles ruefully, feeling raw and unpolished, like Roger’s completely X-rayed him, penetrated him, dominated him.

 

When they meet later that night, the hotel room is hot with the desert air and the aircon only whizzes on when Rafa flicks the switch.

 

Roger drags him in and kisses him, rough and wet and unyielding.

 

“What happened there, huh?”

 

Rafa lets him gently guide him to lean against the door. Rafa leans in to kiss him again, and Roger turns his head.

“Why did you lose like that?”

Rafa lets out a little noise of protest.

“I no want to talk about it.”

“Rafa.”

His shirt gets bunched up at his sides, Roger’s warm hands skirting his skin.

“Please.”

“You’re ok? You’re not hurt?”

 

Rafa just turns his head, slides his mouth against Roger’s in reply.

  
  
  


“You were too good, no?” He whispers. “Just perfect. You destroy me.” 

 

What else could Rafa say? Didn’t Roger know? Couldn’t Roger see the look on his face, the roar he was feeling in his head right now? The way he’d always looked at Roger, like when he was young and barely spoke a word of English. Pupils blown open, his lips yearning for Roger’s kiss and his body wanting Roger fucking into it, taking whatever he wanted, milking sounds out of it that no tennis match ever had. 

 

But Rafa never has to ask, because Roger knows, and Roger sees.

 

He’s complacent and eager when Roger orders him to strip, discards his t shirt, shorts and underwear in mere seconds, throwing them to some corner of the room carelessly. He stands in front of the Roger, naked and aroused, licks his lips.

 

“Oh Rafa. God.”

 

Roger pulls him in and sits on the bed.

 

“Come on then.”

 

Rafa manoeuvres himself into Roger’s lap until he’s across it, his ass sticking out in the air. Roger’s still in an RF jumper and trackpants. 

  
  


“So what was working best for me, do you think?” Roger asks, slowly caressing the soft skin on Rafa’s glorious buttocks, feeling the fine brown hair rise.

 

Rafa turns his face into the mattress.

 

“The backhand.”

 

“Like this?”

A split second later he gets smacked across the left ass cheek with the back of Roger’s right hand, the sound of flesh hitting flesh reverberating around the room. Rafa gasps, wild hot pain blooming, squirms.

 

“Rafa?”

“Yes.”

Another smack, this time on the right cheek. Roger’s hitting is so hard today, so forceful. Rafa wonders if he’ll survive this. Wonders if he wants to.

 

“More please.”

 

Roger lays the backhand slaps thick and fast until his hand must be stinging. Rafa feels like his buttocks are on fire.

 

“You’ve gone so red here Rafa. No tan on here. I can see the print of my knuckles. Does it hurt?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“How much?”

 

“Mmhpff.”

 

More slaps. This time it goes on for a few minutes, and Rafa keens through it, the blood rushing to his cock, which is trapped between his body and Roger’s nylon-clad lap. He feels the tip of his dick straining, dragging along the fabric of Roger’s track pants, making him want to come.

 

Roger parts his ass cheeks and rubs across his hole. Wordlessly prepares him, rough and quick and deep with his elegant fingers, Rafa almost coming imagining what that must look like, Roger’s fingers going in and out of him, even as he feels the pleasure those fingers can bring, He raises his hips up and then grinds down on Roger’s lap, feeling the way Roger’s dick is thickening inside his underwear. Rafa thinks he’s being very clear about what he wants.

 

And Roger gives it to him.

  
  


He’s gentler when they fuck. Makes it last, slow in the way he fluidly moves his hips, treats Rafa like he might break. Rafa knows he won’t. He never has. And in many ways Roger being gentle and slow is even more unbearable, even more beautiful. Rafa wants him more every time they do this. 

 

Roger drags him in so that his back is nestled in Roger’s wide, wiry chest. He wraps his arms around Rafa’s torso, attaches his lips to a pulse point on Rafa’s neck. Whispers to him, half-delirious with the pleasure he’s getting out of Rafa’s body.

 

“Oh, Rafa. God. Oh god. I love you. Fuck. You’re perfect. Beautiful. My beautiful, beautiful boy….”

 

Rafa wants to say  _ thank you, thank you for being so kind to me, thank you for saying you love me, because sometimes I’m not sure, but right now I am _ … but all that comes out of his mouth is a drawn out moan.

 

“You’re ok, though? Your wrist is ok?” Roger asks on instinct, circling said wrist with his left hand as he plunges deep and slow.

 

“Fine. Don’t stop.”

  
  
  


So Roger doesn’t.

  
  
  


When they come, they shout together and kiss, secure that nobody around will hear them, that nobody in each of their lives will know. 


End file.
